


Those Sighs on Which I Fed My Heart

by RJ_Anderson



Category: Leonardo (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Post-Series, Season/Series 02 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RJ_Anderson/pseuds/RJ_Anderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected letter and a daunting artistic challenge force Lisa to reconsider her abilities, her future ambitions, and her relationships with Leonardo and Machiavelli.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Sighs on Which I Fed My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innerbrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerbrat/gifts).



> A BRIEF, HELPFUL WORD TO THOSE NOT IN THE FANDOM (which is to say, just about everybody):
> 
> I like to think this fic is pretty comprehensible even if you haven't seen the TV series, if you grant the premise that Leonardo da Vinci, Niccolo Machiavelli, Lorenzo de' Medici and the girl Leonardo will one day paint as the Mona Lisa are all wacky teenagers hanging out in Florence together.
> 
> Just so you know, though, LEONARDO is in no way intended to resemble Proper History. In the very first episode, Leonardo's wearing skinny jeans and Converse, and invents the BMX bicycle (complete with a nice little bell for the handlebars). So any anachronisms are entirely in the spirit of the source...
> 
> You can find a great rundown and summary of the series (with screencaps!) courtesy of my recip, [here](http://www.thagomizer.net/2011/09/leonardo/). At the very least, you should go see how insanely pretty the cast is. Especially Akemnji Ndifornyen (Machiavelli).

In the late afternoon of Florence, Verrocchio's workshop stands empty. The door to the street is shut, the ragged half-circle of easels shrouded in dustcloths, and all the paints and pigments carefully stored away. Even the floor is swept clean -- little Cosimo's last chore for the day before pulling off his apron and scampering out to join the apprentices in the piazza. The dust from his broom still drifts through the slanting, honey-coloured light.

Only one boy remains, nearly invisible among the shadows. Hunched over his easel, he sits motionless as one of his master's statues. The daubs on his palette are drying, the once-fresh paint grown tacky with disuse, but still his brush hovers uncertainly, unwilling or unable to touch down. 

For a moment he bows his cropped head, silently begging Santa Maria for a miracle. But when he looks up at the canvas, the half-painted nymph stands at the same stiff, unnatural angle as before, unmoved by the satyr attempting to embrace her. Even her smile looks forced.

Tomaso's fingers tighten on the brush, his mouth twisting with anger. It's no use. He's too young for this; he's not good enough. Verrocchio was wrong to trust him, he'll never --

A knock rattles the door of the workshop, followed by an uncertain tenor: "Leo?"

"He's not here," snaps Tomaso, but the last word cracks over half an octave. Furiously he scrubs at his eyes -- stupid, boys aren't supposed to cry -- but it's too late. She's not Tom anymore: she's Lisa, just a girl in boy's clothing and an ugly wig. And it _hurts_.

"Oh, it's you," says Lorenzo as the door opens, and the light from the street floods in. He steps inside, adjusting his peacock-feathered hat. "What're you doing here? There's a whole festival set up in the piazza. Travelling players and dancers and everything. Didn't you hear?"

She'd heard, all right. It would have been difficult not to, considering the announcement had been made by Duke Rocco himself. "A celebration for the common people!" he'd boomed, flinging out his arms as though to embrace the crowd. "Let all the good citizens of Florence share in their Duke's nuptial joy!"

At the time, she'd been as delighted by the news as everyone else. Rocco might be a hot-headed ninny, but at least he was a generous one. And later that same day, when Maestro Verrocchio told her that she -- of all the apprentices in his workshop -- had been chosen to paint a special commission honoring the Duke's upcoming marriage to Bianca Sforza of Milan, it had been one of the happiest moments of Tomaso Gherardini's life...

Lisa's lip starts to tremble. She ducks behind her canvas, so Lorenzo won't see.

"I can't," she says curtly. "I've got work to do." Dropping the palette onto the workbench, she seizes a cloth and wipes her brush -- Tom's brush -- clean. Perhaps if she picks a different colour, and works on the background instead...

"Is that the one for Rocco's wedding?" Alight with curiosity, Lorenzo starts forward -- but Lisa snatches the painting away. The thought of anyone seeing her shame, her failure, is unbearable.

"You can't! It's not finished yet."

Lorenzo stops short, full lips bending in a pout. "Well, you don't have to be rude about it." He glances around the empty workshop. "So where's Leo? When I didn't see either of you in the piazza, I thought --" 

"He had a new invention he wanted to test," says Lisa, trying to sound indifferent. "He and Mac left about an hour ago."

"Where?"

"I don't know. They didn't tell me." And she'd been too furious with Leo, and too wary of Mac's pity, to ask.

The puffed velvet of Lorenzo's shoulders slumps. "Oh."

Lisa watches him, chewing her lip. She can't forget how pampered Lorenzo is compared to the rest of them: he is a Medici, after all. But with his father Piero a fugitive and his mother in a permanent state of hysterics, he must be longing for someone to talk to. And much as the artist in her resents his interruption, she's also secretly grateful for it. If she has to look at that wretched painting for one more second, she'll go mad.

With sudden decisiveness, Lisa props the unfinished canvas back on the easel and tosses a cloth over it. "Come on," she says, wiping the paint from her hands. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

"The worst of it is, I've been working on this commission of Rocco's for two weeks now," Lisa says, brandishing her gelato spoon for emphasis, "and no matter how many times I repaint that stupid nymph, I can't seem to get her right. It's so humil-- so frustrating!"

They're sitting at the edge of the piazza, away from the growing crowd. A sword-swallower has taken the platform at the far end of the square, and the air fills with oohs and gasps of wonder as he tips his head back and slides the first blade down his throat.

Lorenzo nods gloomily, his eyes on the man's distant figure. "I can't seem to do anything right lately either. Ever since what happened with Father, Mama hardly talks to me at all. She says I've betrayed my own flesh and blood." He sighs. "She doesn't even call me her _piccolo bambino_ anymore."

She knows it's unkind, but Lisa can't keep from snickering. Fortunately, the look Lorenzo gives her is more wry than hurt.

"I know," he says. "I used to hate it when she did that. But sometimes you don't know how much something matters to you, until it's gone. And you realize you might never get it back."

Lisa freezes, the spoon poised against her lips. For a moment the coldness in her stomach is more than gelato -- 

But no, it's not the same. It can't be. "It's going to be all right," she says, with all the firmness she can muster. "You did the right thing, Lorenzo."

He smiles, but without conviction. He hasn't touched his gelato, either. Lisa gives him a hopeful look, and with a sigh he pushes the dish toward her and slumps back into his chair. "I wish I knew what Leo and Mac were up to. You really haven't a clue where they went?"

Lisa stabs her spoon into the dish, splitting the icy globe in half. "No," she says, and resists the urge to add, _and I don't care._ "All I know is it had something to do with a water wheel."

"The Ponte alle Grazie!" Lorenzo starts to his feet. "I'll bet you anything that's where they've gone. We might still catch up to them if we hurry. _Presto!"_

He stops then, because Lisa hasn't moved. She's still toying with her gelato, breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. "What? Why aren't you coming?"

"I don't want to see him, Lorenzo." Lisa's cheeks are burning, but she raises her chin, defiant. "Go ahead if you want, but I'm staying here."

"You're angry at Leo?" asks Lorenzo, sounding puzzled, but then his face clears. "Oh, you mean Mac."

"No!" The word comes out shrill, and she flushes a shade deeper. "I mean yes. At Leo."

"Really? What did he do?"

"What _didn't_ he do, is more like it." Suddenly Lisa can't bear to look at gelato anymore. She drops the spoon with a clatter and sits back, folding her arms across her bound breasts. "I asked him to look at my painting, and help me figure out what was wrong with it." Which had been a blow to her pride already, even without what happened next. "And he said... he said..."

Lorenzo makes an encouraging gesture, but it looks more like "hurry up" than "go on." She fights the impulse to kick him under the table, and bursts out: 

"He said he was busy! Can you believe it?"

"Er --"

"And then he went dashing off to play with his stupid water-thing. It's not fair!" Lisa's fist hits the table, making the dishes -- and Lorenzo -- jump. "Nobody loves painting as much as I do. I work harder than anybody! But Leo's ten times better than I'll ever be, and he doesn't even care --" 

Tears again. She drives the heels of her hands against her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to composure. She is Tomaso Gherardini, one of the brightest young painters in Florence. Not some soppy little girl.

"Well, maybe," says Lorenzo tentatively, "but it's not really fair to... I mean, Leo's brilliant, isn't he?"

"And I'm not? Thank you very much!"

"Hang on, that's not what I meant!" Lorenzo protests, catching her wrist before she can run away. "Lis -- Tom -- don't look like that. You know what I'm talking about. Leo's not like the rest of us. He's good at _everything_."

Lisa's jaw is clenched. She twists free of his grip and folds her arms again, staring at the table.

"Look, you'll figure this out, even without Leo's help. I know you will." Lorenzo gives her an encouraging smile. "That'll show him, eh?"

It's a pathetic attempt at cheering her up, but Lisa's too tired to stay angry. Besides, he's right about Leo, even if he's probably wrong about her. Leonardo da Vinci is the living definition of genius, art and invention and mad daring all wrapped up in one beautiful package; he's more like a young god than a teenaged boy.

Maybe that's why she wasted the past year and a half thinking she was in love with him. Leo seemed like all she could ever want, because he was everything she wanted to be -- the perfect artist. She'd known he was oblivious to her feelings, that there was a barrier between Tom-the-friend and Lisa-the-girl that he refused to let himself cross. But she hadn't let it daunt her: she'd flung herself at that wall from every angle, foolishly convinced that sheer persistence could wear it down.

But sometimes no matter how hard you work for something you love, it isn't enough. Especially if you never had what it takes to begin with.

And now she's starting to think that might apply to even more things in her life than Leonardo da Vinci.

"Maybe I should give up," she says, and it surprises her how readily the words fall off her tongue. But wouldn't it be a relief, if she did? No more anxiety, no more pressure, no more struggling to prove herself to Verrocchio or Leo or anyone. Just a dignified acceptance of failure, and she could turn this wretched painting over to some other apprentice -- one with enough skill to make the nymph look like she's having fun instead of a tooth extraction, and enough common sense not to lose sleep fretting over it...

Lorenzo goggles at her. "What? You can't!"

"Why not?"

"The wedding's in two days! And besides, I specifically told Rocco to ask for you. How much of a fool am I going to look if you back out at the last minute?"

"Oh, _eccellente,"_ says Lisa acidly. "Because what I really needed was more pressure." But she's flattered, just the same.

"So let's get back to Verrocchio's. I want to see this painting."

"But --"

"No buts," interrupts Lorenzo, with lordly dignity. "For one thing, it can't be half as bad as you think it is. And anyway, you owe me."

"For what?"

"I bought you gelato, didn't I?"

He has a point. Lisa sighs, and pushes back her chair.

* * *

Lorenzo's face when he sees the painting would be funny, if Lisa were in any mood to laugh. "Oh. Well. It's..." He gestures vaguely. "The trees are very nice! And the look on the, er..."

"Satyr," says Lisa. That part at least she did get right: that tanned, bearded face with its expression of leering mischief is as satyr-like as anyone could wish for. Whether it's appropriate for a new bride's bedchamber is another matter, but she knows better than to argue with a customer about what he wants. Especially when that customer is Duke Rocco.

"Satyr. Right." Lorenzo leans forward, squinting at the canvas. "So this nymph... is she _supposed_ to be trying to escape? Because if she's meant to represent the bride, that seems a little..."

"Have you seen her?" asks Lisa abruptly. "Lady Bianca?"

"Well, of course. She's been at the palace for six days, it'd be a bit odd if I hadn't."

"Do you think she looks happy?"

"It's hard to tell," Lorenzo admits. "She's... sort of reserved."

"Like Angelica?"

"Ugh, don't even mention that name. My stomach goes all funny just thinking about it." His lips curl back in disgust. "I still can't believe Mac fell for her. Snooty Angelica Visconti!"

Lisa doesn't answer; she doesn't trust herself to talk about Mac right now. The look he'd given her as he left the workshop -- the concern in his dark eyes, the hint of regret -- had pierced her almost as much as Leo's indifference. Not because she'd expected him to care, but because she hadn't.

But that isn't even half of what troubles her when she thinks about Niccolò Machiavelli. And it's all Angelica's fault... Except that unlike Lorenzo, she can't bring herself to hold a grudge. Especially not after that unexpected letter from Pisa, only three days ago.

_My father has arranged another marriage for me, to Signior Vittore Antelminelli di Lucca. I am told he is a great and noble man, but every time I look at his portrait, I wish I had run away with Mac -- or even married Lorenzo. I know I spoke rudely about the choice you made, but the truth is, I envy you your freedom. Hold onto it as long as you can._

"She wasn't so bad," says Lisa. "Once you got to know her."

Lorenzo sniffs. "If you say so. I'm just glad to be rid of her myself."

"You're still going to have to marry someone eventually, though," Lisa points out with a touch of malice. "And you might like her even less than you did Angelica."

"I know," he says bleakly, and for a moment Lisa sees past his round boy's face to the harsher angles of the man he will become. Then he gives her a sidelong glance, half curious and half shy, and he's the same old Lorenzo again. "But what about you? You can't pass as a boy forever."

Lisa shrugs, as though it's no particular concern. But deep down she knows, and fears, that Lorenzo is right. All the other apprentices are growing tall and broad-shouldered, with stubbly jaws and deepening voices; she can't expect a sharp-eyed man like Verrocchio not to notice the difference. She can play at being Tomaso for one more year, two at best, and then the game will be over.

Except that it's not a game. It's her life, and her happiness, and everything she cares about. And though once she would have comforted herself with the thought that someday Leo would marry her and they'd spend the rest of their lives painting together, she knows better now. She can't stake her future on a dream.

Lorenzo turns back to the painting, tilting his head to one side as he considers the nymph from a new angle. "Maybe it would help if she didn't look quite so, er, constipated?"

Lisa is torn between exasperation and a hysterical urge to laugh. "It probably would, yes! What do you think I've been working on for the past three days?"

"Sorry." Lorenzo looks embarrassed. "I'm hardly one to judge. Mama hired me an art tutor once, and I couldn't even sketch a decent bowl of fruit."

Which is no doubt true, but that isn't much help to Lisa. In fact, now that she's looking at the painting again, the nymph's expression seems even more dismal than before. The silence in the workshop grows awkward, and Lorenzo starts to edge away.

"Well, I should be getting back to the palace. I'll leave you to it, shall I? And if you see Leo..."

"I'll tell him you came by." She hesitates, then adds more quietly, " _Grazie,_ Lorenzo."

That surprises him, she can tell. "What for -- Oh, the gelato? You're welcome." 

It's more than that, but she doesn't have the words. So she merely smiles, and lets him go.

* * *

She can't face the painting again, not so soon. She needs to compose herself, get some perspective. Lisa climbs to the loft, lifts the loose board under her pallet, and takes out her most precious treasure -- the carved wooden music box that reminds her of her mother. She lifts the lid gently, letting the soft melody tinkle out into the air.

Ordinarily the familiar tune would comfort her, send her off into a land of happy daydreams. She'd remember the day the box came to her, the shiver of delight when she opened the package and the warm rush of certainty that Leo must have sent it to her, no matter what he said...

But today, those memories seem faint and far away. She's not certain of anything anymore, and the tinny chime of the music box seems only to mock her folly. Lisa snaps it shut, cutting off the song in mid-stanza, and puts it back into its hiding place beside Angelica's letter.

She's just finished refreshing her paints and setting up her easel again when Leo bursts into the studio, wet to the elbows and shining with triumph. "It worked!" he announces, flipping open his notebook to show her. "See, the buckets fill this reservoir, and then the water pours out and turns the wheel, which moves the --"

"Lorenzo came by, while you were gone," says Lisa coolly, ignoring the sketch. "I told him I'd let you know."

"Any news?" asks Mac, coming up behind Leo. "They haven't caught Piero, have they?"

The huskiness of his voice does unexpected things to Lisa's insides. She takes a deep breath, willing the butterflies to settle. 

"Not yet," she says, dabbing a hint of rose along the nymph's creamy thigh. "Lorenzo thinks he's run off to Naples. You're missing Rocco's party, by the way."

"That's right!" exclaims Mac. "We should go to the piazza. I hear there'll be cake -- and dancing." He takes a step back, bows and holds his hand out to Lisa with a flourish. " _Vieni,_ signorina?"

It's the same old Machiavelli on the surface, all suave courtesy and calculated charm. But there are lines of strain around his mouth, and his eyes are a shade darker than they used to be. If his smile is a mask, he's not wearing it to manipulate. He's only heartbroken, and trying to protect himself from being hurt again.

And by hiding away in Verrocchio's studio when the rest of Florence is celebrating, isn't she doing the same?

"Mac's right," Leo urges her. "You've been working all day, and there's always tomorrow. Look--" he claps his sketchbook closed and drops it onto the workbench. "Even I'm going."

If he thinks that'll be enough to entice her, he's wrong. "I can't," Lisa says. "I have to finish this painting, or I'll be up all night. _Some_ of us take art seriously."

Leo shoots Mac a look, eyes wide and mouth pursed in a silent _ooooh_. If he hadn't realized Lisa was annoyed at him before, he does now. 

"Let me have a look then," he says, moving beside her. "What's the matter with... Oh."

"What a coincidence," says Lisa tartly. "That's what Lorenzo said, too."

Leonardo considers the nymph for a moment, rubbing his thumb thoughtfully along his lower lip. "I see the problem," he says at last. "The angle of her spine, here..." He pulls a stick of charcoal from behind his ear, flips open his sketchbook and begins to draw the nymph's pose as it should be, talking all the while.

Lisa watches in silence, but privately she's seething. The time when she wanted Leo's help is long past now; she's determined to fix this painting her own way or not at all. And there should be a special word in Italian -- a curse word, preferably -- for what he's doing, explaining to her principles of line and form that she knows as well as he does; it's the sort of patronizing lecture her father and brothers used to give her all the time.

" _Grazie,_ Maestro," she says with a touch of sarcasm, when Leo stops scribbling and offers her the sketchbook as a reference. There's no question the nymph he's drawn would be perfect by Rocco's standards, all yielding plumpness and cheeks dimpled in a come-hither smile. But this painting is for Bianca, and Lisa can't bear the thought of indulging the Duke at his bride's expense. There has to be a better way.

Mac catches the edge in her voice, if Leo doesn't. He casts her a swift glance, one dark brow flicking upward, and then he turns to the other boy and says casually, "Maybe we should let Tom do his thing. The sooner he's done the sooner he can join us in the piazza, right?"

He always remembers to call her Tomaso when she's wearing her boy's disguise. Lorenzo and even Leo slip up occasionally, but not Mac. How did she never notice that before?

"Do you want us to go?" asks Leo, and Lisa responds with her firmest nod. "All right, then. Come on, Mac."

For a fraction of an instant, Machiavelli hesitates. Then he says smoothly, "As it happens, I've got a couple of things to look after myself. Why don't I catch up with you in half an hour or so?" 

His hand swings across to Leo's, catching it in their familiar slap-snatch-salute -- and just like that, he's off again. Leo looks faintly surprised, but then he shrugs and heads for the door.

"I wouldn't mind a piece of cake," Lisa calls after him, but too late: he's already gone.

Still, she's got at least one good thing out of Leo's visit. She knows now, if she didn't before, that it's not her technique at fault. She could easily copy the nymph he drew for her, or paint a similar one of her own -- but she doesn't want to.

The question is, what _does_ she want?

* * *

She's given up all pretense of working and is gazing morosely at the canvas when a soft rap on the door startles her back to attention. She looks up as Mac slips into the workshop, moving stealthily with a wine bottle tucked beneath his arm and one hand behind his back. He touches a finger to his lips -- _shhh, don't tell_ \-- then shows her what he's been hiding.

It's a dinner plate, crowded with food. Fruit, cheese, bread, and wonder of wonders, an enormous piece of cake.

"Santa Maria!" breathes Lisa, and leaps up to take it from him. " _Grazie,_ Mac, _mille grazie_. Did you hear me yelling after Leo?"

"Nah," he says airily, but there's a little smile tugging at his lips, and she knows he's pleased by her reaction. "I just figured you might be hungry. Have you really been here all day?"

"Not quite," Lisa admits, tearing off a piece of bread. She wants to dive straight into the cake, but she'll savour it more if she waits a little longer. "I went out for a few minutes earlier, with Lorenzo."

"Ah." He pours them both a cup of wine, then hitches a leg over one corner of the workbench and sits down. "So what's up? You just about bit Leo's head off, back there."

Lisa forces herself to chew slowly, buying time to think. There's so much she wants to say to him -- and so much she can't. Partly because she's still trying to unravel her own tangled feelings, and partly because Angelica asked her not to.

 _Mac would never tell you this,_ the older girl had written in her careful, elegant script, _and he would not thank me for telling you now. But he would never have fallen in love with me, I am certain, if he'd thought he had any chance with you._

That had made Lisa blush, but it didn't come as a shock. She'd known ever since Lorenzo's betrothal ball that Mac liked her. But she'd dismissed it as idle fancy, telling herself his feelings couldn't be half as strong as hers were for Leo -- after all, she and Leo were soulmates, whereas she and Mac had nothing in common. He'd soon forget her, she decided, if she didn't encourage him.

Yet somewhere along the line, she'd come to take Mac's silent admiration, his readiness to give her anything she asked, for granted. So when he turned his attentions to Angelica she'd felt stung, and strangely bereft...

"It's this awful painting," she says, because that much at least is true. "I have to do what Rocco asks, because he's the Duke and he's paying for it. But I can't help feeling sorry for Lady Bianca."

The old Machiavelli, the boy she’d met on her first day in Florence, would have smirked at that. Bianca Sforza is the wealthy daughter of a great family, marrying an even richer and more powerful man; what possible reason could there be to feel sorry for her? 

But there's no mockery in Mac's face now. Thanks to Angelica, he knows all too well how unhappy a noblewoman’s life can be.

"It could be worse, though," he offers. "At least Rocco's young and healthy, and not too bad to look at. Even if he is a bit of an idiot."

Like the satyr in Lisa's painting. She wasn't attempting a portrait -- that would have been too obvious, even for an unsubtle man like the Duke. But there is something Rocco-like in the quirk of the satyr's eyebrows, the hint of petulance about his lips. She wonders if Bianca will notice it.

"It's still not fair, though," she says with rising indignation. "People should be free to marry whoever they want. They shouldn't just have to put up with someone they don't love, because their family says so." That was why she'd run away from home in the first place, after all. If she'd stayed to marry the man her father had picked out for her, she'd never have become an artist...

"By the way, have you heard from Angelica?" Mac asks abruptly, and Lisa nearly chokes on her piece of bread. She takes a quick gulp of wine to cover it.

"Me?” she asks, when she can speak. “Why on earth would Angelica write to me?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He plucks the peach off her plate and tosses it lightly in his hand. “But I haven't heard any news of her since she went back to Pisa, and I guess... I just hoped she'd find a way to keep in touch. Somehow."

"You still love her," says Lisa, with sinking heart. "Don't you."

“Course I do. If you’re really in love with somebody, do you ever stop?”

“Yes.” Lisa blurts, and Mac looks up sharply. "I mean," she says, almost stammering, "you might still love them, but... you might not be _in love_ with them anymore. If you know what I mean."

"Maybe." His expression is curious now, searching. "Has that ever happened to you?"

Lisa's lips are dry. "Maybe. You?"

"Nah." He gets up, holding her gaze, and puts the peach gently into her hand. "When there's someone I care about, I'm not that good at giving up."

They are standing so close now, she can feel his breath on her cheek. He smells like myrrh cologne and the fainter fragrance of the mint he's been chewing, and she says, almost in a whisper, "The music box."

He frowns. "What about it?"

The box that meant so much to her, that spoke of love and home. For over a year now she'd flattered herself that Leo had sent her the gift anonymously, too shy to admit his true feelings. But Mac, not Leo, had been with her when she first saw the music box in the marketplace. He'd been the one who'd heard her exclaim over it, not Leo. In fact, unless Leo could read her mind and see into her very soul (which was what she'd been hoping, stupid as it now seems), there was no way he could have known the box even existed, let alone decided to buy it for her.

It was Mac. It's been Mac all along.

"You gave it to me," she says shakily, "and I love it. And I never thanked you."

The guarded look on his face vanishes, replaced by dawning wonder. Embarrassed at herself, Lisa ducks her head and starts to turn away -- but Mac catches her arm.

"Hang on," he says. "Are you telling me you're over Leo?"

Tears fill her eyes, unbidden but impossible to hide. "I guess," she says thickly, "I know when it's time to give up."

Mac gazes at her a moment. Then, abruptly, he turns and strides away. Lisa’s heart drops into her shoes -- she’s been a fool, it was the wrong thing to say, she’s ruined everything -- 

But then she hears the bolt rasp home, and the swelling misery inside her bursts into effervescent bubbles of relief. He’s not walking out on her. He’s only locking the door.

When he comes back, the little smile is playing about his lips again. “D’you mind taking off your wig?” he asks.

He doesn’t have to ask twice -- it’s itchy, and she’s glad for any chance to be free of it. Lisa tugs at the cropped thatch, and it comes away in her hand. “But why?” she asks.

“No offense,” says Mac, stepping closer, “but right now, it isn’t Tom I want to kiss.”

Lisa’s breath stops, and her eyes grow wide. He takes her face between his warm brown hands, leans closer…

And all at once it comes to her, in one glorious flare of revelation. She gasps, and jerks away. “I’ve got it!” she exclaims, and with that she leaps back to the easel, snatches up her brush and palette, and starts painting.

“Right,” says Mac blankly after a moment. “I’ll just let myself out, shall I?”

Lisa doesn’t answer; she’s too absorbed in her work. If she can just rough out the lines, while the image in her mind is still fresh…

* * *

“ _Superbo!”_ exclaims Duke Rocco, pacing around the easel. “The painting is exquisite. I could ask for nothing better.”

“ _Grazie,_ Excellency,” says Tomaso, weak with relief, and Maestro Verrocchio claps him on the shoulder.

In the centre of the workshop the canvas stands unveiled, luminous in the morning sunlight. The nymph’s body curves into the satyr’s embrace, one hand laid demurely against his chest, and she is smiling. At first glance, she looks happy as a bride should be. Only on closer inspection would anyone notice that her eyes gaze not at the satyr, but beyond him to the distant stars… and that the glimmer of silver on her lashes might not be moonlight, but tears.

There’s another difference, too: the nymph’s repainted face looks a little like Angelica’s, with its proud lines and uptilted chin. But the only one here who might care about that is Lorenzo. And judging by the way he’s beaming at Tom and the painting in turn, he’s already forgotten what his ex-fiancée looked like. 

“I shall present it to the Lady Bianca this evening,” Rocco announces, dropping a jingling purse of florins into Tom’s hand. “You have a great talent, young master…”

“Tomaso, your Excellency.”

“Ah yes. Tomaso... er... Gandolfini.” He snaps his fingers, and a servant hurries forward to wrap up the painting and carry it away. “Back to the palace. _Avanti!"_

He flings his cloak back over his shoulder and marches out. As the rest of them file after him, Lorenzo gives Tom a triumphant thumbs-up -- and then he too vanishes.

“Well!” says Maestro Verrocchio, clapping his hands together. He looks as happy as Tom's ever seen him, buoyed by confidence that this will lead to many more commissions from the house of Medici -- and he’s probably right. “Excellent work, Tomaso. Take the rest of the day off, with my blessing.”

“ _Fantastico!"_ says Leo, striding forward to clap Tom on the back. “I knew you could do it! See, you didn’t need my help at all.”

He means it, Tomaso knows. There’s no pettiness or envy in Leo, and if he’s competitive it’s only with himself, trying to push his elastic wits and bubbling ingenuity to the limit. But it’s not Leonardo da Vinci’s admiration, or even the pride of having proved himself an artist in his own right, that warms Tom -- no, Lisa -- now. She has more urgent matters on her mind.

“ _Grazie,_ Maestro,” she says to Verrocchio with a bob of her head. Then she ducks away from Leo’s embrace, and hurries out into the street.

* * *

It isn’t Mac who comes to the gate but one of his urchins, a tiny redhead with big ears and freckles who eyes her with wary speculation. It’s not that he hasn’t seen Tomaso before: all Mac’s boys know who his friends are. But she doesn’t usually come alone.

“I need to talk to Machiavelli,” says Lisa firmly. “In private.”

The boy scurries off through the archway, and her heart beats faster as she waits for his return. But as the silence lengthens, the anticipation inside her curdles into dread. What if Mac doesn’t want to see her again? Last night she’d been so caught up in the excitement of finishing the painting that she’d forgotten everything else, including what had just happened -- or almost happened -- between them. Not until she applied the last triumphant stroke to the canvas, and turned to find the untouched piece of cake still sitting on her plate, did she realize that she’d let Mac go without even saying goodbye.

What if he thinks she’s playing games with him, teasing him closer only to push him away? What if he’s decided he’s tired of being second best to her, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s Leo or merely her art that comes first?

Her feet are starting to ache from standing, and she’s on the verge of giving up, when the urchin reappears. Without a word he unlatches the gate, darts past her and vanishes down the dusty street toward the marketplace. 

There’s no sign of Mac, but Lisa decides to take it as an invitation. She pushes the gate open, crosses the cobbled entranceway and goes in.

Machiavelli is sitting in the armchair with his booted feet propped upon the table, flipping a coin back and forth between his fingers. He doesn’t look up as she enters. 

“Well?” he says, his voice colorless. “Did you finish the painting?”

“Duke Rocco loved it,” says Lisa. “He’s giving it to Bianca tonight.”

And what will come of that, if anything, is more than Lisa knows. She can’t tell whether Bianca will notice her subtle message of sympathy, or whether it will make any difference to her if she does. But she’s proud to have painted Duke Rocco’s commission with as much skill as any boy, while still being true to her woman’s conscience.

“I came to thank you,” she says, and Mac looks up in surprise.

“What for?” he asks.

“What you said… what we talked about…” She takes a deep breath. “It helped. A lot.”

His brows quirk skeptically. “You think so? I dunno, Tom. You and Leo are the artists. Not me.”

“You don’t have to be an artist to inspire one,” says Lisa, and she means it. She can’t explain to him exactly how his words, his touch, spoke to her last night; she’s not even clear in her own mind what happened, especially since Angelina’s letter and Lorenzo’s visit are mixed up in there somehow as well. But she knows that at the crucial moment, it was Mac and not Leo who made the difference.

It’s taken her a long time to realize it, but what she needs isn’t someone exactly like herself, someone who shares all the same passions -- and, likely as not, the same faults. She and Mac might have different skills and interests, but he respects her all the more for that, appreciates her in ways that even Leo doesn’t. And he’s got qualities she’s learned to admire, too: a cool head to balance her hot one, an ability to plan for the future while she’s still stuck in the moment, and -- if there’s anything left of it after her clumsy trampling -- a faithful and tender heart.

Lisa reaches up and pulls off her wig, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. Then she backs to the door, leans against it and says, willing her voice not to tremble, “So. Where were we?”

For a moment, Mac sits without moving. Then he tosses the coin onto the table and gets up. “I dunno,” he says huskily, as he walks to her. “You tell me.”

She searches his familiar face, tracing its lines with her gaze -- the thick curling hair and dark arch of brows, the smooth umber planes of nose and forehead, the full and sensual lips. Then, gaining courage, Lisa reaches up, slides her arms around his neck, and kisses him.

* * *

You who hear the sound, in scattered rhymes,  
of those sighs on which I fed my heart,  
in my first vagrant youthfulness,  
when I was partly other than I am, 

I hope to find pity, and forgiveness,  
for all the modes in which I talk and weep,  
between vain hope and vain sadness,  
in those who understand love through its trials. 

\- Petrarch, _Canzoniere_ I (translated by A.S. Kline)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was SO MUCH FUN to write, inasmuch as writing the first draft of anything can ever be fun. My utmost gratitude to Innerbrat for requesting a fandom that way more people should love, to Liz for her lightning-fast (and hilarious) beta comments, and Hope for making encouraging noises and correcting my bad Italian to something more like the show's bad Italian.


End file.
